The Book of Gogo-an

The picture window blinded by the light, the air conditioner acting cool, the fan is turning its own head with every breath it takes.

The dog days of August have arrived and I’m just getting over this year’s summer solstice and its subsequent Bermuda.

Dark and stormy waves of consciousness reflect divided light until they’re stilled within their own inertia. After all, it is the light.

And after visiting the world, this hermit has returned to sit within his room to read the shortwave ideograms of Robert Lax

as if

Ryokan’s

own

calli

graphy

were

revel

ations

in a

cave.

The Merrimack is my Patmos and the village is an open mic. I rise to see the picture window blinded by the light.